Investigating Death
by PKNight
Summary: While investigating a religious murder, Sara and co. run across a few familiar characters. x-over w/Sandman. Please R/R!


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Title: Investigating Death…for lack of a better one…

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Summary: While investigating a religious murder of a teenage girl, Sara meets a couple of interesting, familiar characters.

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Spoilers: Not anything that I can think of for Witchblade, but spoilers aaaaalllll up in there for the Sandman and Death comics.

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Rating: PG. Not a lot of language, or violence. 

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Disclaimer: I certainly don't own anyone else's character. But the one that aren't named in either the comics or the show are *mine, mine, mine!* …yeah, so don't sue me, it really wouldn't be worth it.

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Investigating Death

It wasn't a pretty way to go, but it was hers, the one she was destined for. "So much for, 'live fast, die young, leave a pretty corpse.' He sure did a number on me, huh?"

The pale, black-clad young-looking woman smiled thinly at the girl standing next to her. "I've seen worse, Shannon. I've seen them all."

Shannon looked away from the body lying on the ground. "Yeah, I've figured that out. So…he was right about you all, huh? Why didn't you stop him?"

"My brother got a little ego-boost out of it. I think it was all Calliope's doing. Besides, anyone who would read those would hopefully be able to accept it. Like you. There are always a couple who goes nuts, but who's going to accept a comic book as a religious text?"

"Not a lot of people," Shannon conceded. "If you ask me, it's more to the pity." She paused. "I guess I had a pretty good run, huh? Met some people, did some stuff. Is there…I don't know…like, reincarnation?"

"Let's talk," the woman said, and put an arm around Shannon's shoulder. They moved into nothingness as they heard sirens in the distance.

**********

Sara Pezzini shuddered. "Another weird one," she murmured, almost under her breath. 

Danny sighed. "Why do we always end up with the weird ones?" he demanded rhetorically, looking sadly down at the girl.

"Just lucky, I guess," Sara said wryly as she knelt next to the body, careful not to contaminate the scene. She no longer had to try very hard to keep the contents of her stomach where they were, but seeing death was never easy. "She was sacrificed," she said to herself, studying the girl. She couldn't have been older than nineteen. She wore no makeup that Sara could see, and was dressed very plainly. Black jeans, T-shirt, thick over shirt that looked like it came from the men's department, and big black boots. Crosses were carved through her clothes, all over her body.

Sara looked at the girl's face, and noticed the peaceful expression on it. She'd bet money the girl had been dead before she'd been cut up.

She looked further up. On the wall over the girl's head there was writing in Day-Glo orange spray paint. "Repent sinners! Embrace the One True God Almighty!"

"Not another religious thing." Sara blinked in confusion, unable to remember the last time she'd had a religious homicide. She shrugged that thought off. As she stood, she sensed her bracelet acting up again.

Suddenly she was watching the girl when she was alive, walking down the street. She was dressed exactly as she was now, with the exception of her jewelry. She had rings on every other finger, at least three necklaces, and three holes in each ear. No piercings besides the ears. The Witchblade focused on one necklace in particular. A pendant, rotating as she walked. On one side was a star, a peace sign on the other. 

Sara jerked back into the present. "Any sign of robbery?" she asked.

A uniform shook her head. "No. Wallet still in her back pocket."

"Any jewelry?"

"Just earrings. There are a couple of necklaces over there." She pointed at some markers. "They looked like they were cut off. A few rings were scattered there, too."

"ID?"

"Driver's license, library card. School ID. Insurance card. Her name's Shannon Keene. She's eighteen. Barely." The uniform held up an evidence bag with a wallet in it, and told Sara the address. 

"We got to find the parents now, don't we?" Danny asked her. He shook his head. "I hate that. Hey, where's McCartey?"

"In transit. We'll call on the way, have him meet us at the parent's place." Sara led the way back to the car.

"We're very sorry to disturb you, Ms. Keene."

"Whitcomb." The short, pudgy woman held her hand to her head. "My name is Christy Whitcomb. Can I help you?" She looked from Sara to Danny to Jake quickly before settling on Sara.

"Actually, we're here to talk to you." She flipped open her badge. "Are you acquainted with a Shannon Keene?"

"She's my daughter. Oh, my God, what has she done? Please don't tell me she got arrested! Anything but that!" The woman stepped back dramatically, clutched a cross necklace she had. "Oh, please, anything but that!"

Danny stepped forward. "She wasn't arrested. Ms. Whitcomb, there's no easy way to say this. Your daughter is dead."

"You must be mistaken," she said. "She just went to a friend's house. Said she was going to celebrate one of her holidays. I'll just call over there right now to make sure that she's awake already. They stay up late at those parties. Growing children need their sleep." She picked up the phone. Her hands shook violently, and she dropped the receiver. Jake leaned over and picked it up, setting it gently back into the cradle.

"Ms. Whitcomb," Sara said. "Maybe you should sit down."

"Yes, all right." She led them into the living room of the apartment, gestured absently for them to sit down. Danny and Jake sat. Sara remained standing, looking around the apartment. "Are you sure?"

"I'm very sorry to be the one to break this to you, but yes, we are sure." Sara went over and examined a picture of Christy Whitcomb, Shannon Keene, and a man. Ms. Whitcomb was in a wedding dress, beaming at the camera with the man smiling beatifically. Shannon looked less than thrilled, though whether that was the screaming pink dress she wore or the marriage itself, Sara didn't know.

"This is your wedding?" she asked, gesturing at the picture.

"Yes," Ms. Whitcomb said. "Just last August. Harry…he'll be home later." The shock was plain in her voice. Sara grimaced and went back to studying the picture. Shannon had a black string around her neck, Sara noticed. A necklace tucked under her dress. Was it the pendant?

Sara heard the voices start again. Ms. Whitcomb was saying, _"Please, Shannon. Just this once, take it off?"_

Sara heard a windy, put-upon sigh. Then a girl's voice asked, _"Why? It's my religion, not his."_

"Just take the necklace off. You know it offends him. Please?" The tone turned wheedling. _"For me? It's my wedding day."_

"How about I put it inside my dress. Will that work?"

"Thank you, dear. Now, help me zip up, won't you?" 

Sara returned to the present. "What religious affiliation are you?"

Ms. Whitcomb looked surprised for a moment, then said, "I'm a Catholic."

"And your daughter?"

"She's…confused."

"How so?" Sara pressed. She could tell Danny and Jake were giving her confused looks, but she didn't look their way to find out.

"She…she thought she was a witch. She met some people at her school. They're harmless, really. They think they can…change things. Make things better. She wears all that jewelry proudly. My husband…doesn't like it. He thinks she should convert. Calls her a heathen."

Sara nodded. "So, she was into Wicca."

"Yes, that's what she called it. Around Harry. But she always called herself a witch around me. Was proud of it. Had her necklace specially made. Designed it herself. It had that five-pointed star Harry hated so much on one side, and a peace sign, like from the 60's, on the other."

Sara nodded again. They made sure she was going to be all right, and left the apartment. "What was all that about religion, Pez?" Jake asked. 

"Just a hunch," Sara said flippantly. "Jake, did you notice those necklaces at the scene?"

"Yeah," Danny said, then paused. "Ah." He turned to Jake. "The necklace the mother described? The one her step-father hated? It wasn't at the scene."

"So we should check out the step-father?" Jake asked.

"Yup," Sara answered. "But let's go see if Vicky has anything for us."

**********

"Your girl was dead before the mutilation," Vicky said upon inquiry. "Knocked on the head. Cracked the skull at her temple. She was dead before she hit the ground, likely. Lot of rage behind that blow." Vicky didn't bother putting up the x-rays.

"So, then what?" Sara asked.

"Then she was cut. Repeatedly. Always in the shape of a cross. Based on the message you guys found at the scene, it looks like you guys've got yourselves a religious fanatic."

"She was a Wiccan," Sara told her.

"That would explain the 'repent sinners' line," Vicky said. She shook her head. "I don't understand religious people. I don't understand how you can interpret something you read so that you can kill someone over it. I just don't get it."

"That's just the extremes, Po," Sara said. "Let's keep our perspective."

"Yeah, yeah," Vicky said. She put a hand to her forehead. "It's just hard, you know? I get young people in here all the time; a young hooker, ODs, gangs, hell, even hit-and-runs that took out kids. But girls like her; they're the hard ones. She was a virgin, never did any drugs, not even alcohol it looked like. And she's the one that gets taken out for her religious preference. It's hard sometimes, you know?"

"So she wasn't raped?"

"No. No injuries of any kind except for the lacerations and the skull fracture. No toxins in her blood stream, nothing. That's all I got for you. Aside from the religious thing, it looks like you guys actually caught a normal murder for once."

"Thanks, Po," Sara said.

"So, we're off for the night, gentlemen," Sara said, stepping into her office to retrieve her jacket and helmet.

"Guess so. Wanna hit the bar for a couple of drinks, Pez?" Jake asked.

"Not tonight. I'll take a rain check, though." She was out the door before he could respond to that.

She buzzed down the streets clogged with homeward-bound traffic, headed straight for Talismaniac. She knocked loudly. "Open!" came the short answer from inside. Smiling slightly, Sara opened the door and went in.

"You know," she said after she spotted Gabriel's dark head among the shelves. "That's dangerous. You don't know who could be walking in."

"Hey, Pez!" Gabriel said, turning to greet her with his usual grin. "What're you doing here? You're not trying to sell that to me again, are you?"

"No, no," Sara said quickly, unconsciously putting a protective hand over her bracelet. 

"Good. But, I haven't gotten any new info on that yet, either. CyberFaust has been unusually silent lately. I can only assume you came for something else."

"I need some general information," she said, following Gabriel to the remotely clear section of the store/warehouse that held his computer. He sat in the office chair and spun towards her.

"I was hoping you were after my scintillating conversation, but I can do most general info. Info on what?"

"Paganism. Modern. Wicca specifically."

"Some of the gentlest people you'll find," he said immediately. "Some of them are nuts, but they're pretty harmless. Of course, you get your occasional loony, as with everything. The creed they follow is, uh, what is it? 'If it harms no one, do as you like,' or something like that. Most of them believe in reincarnation. I have a few friends who are Wiccans."

"Ever hear of anyone killing Wiccans?"

"Salem witch trials, though there weren't any actual 'witches' killed." He turned to his computer. "I've actually got one of the stones used to crush that one guy to death for sale. Going price is about $2500. Witch burnings dating back to the Spanish Inquisition. Before that people were just ostracized. Joan of Arc." He glanced at her briefly, saw her frown. "Sorry. Uh, let's see. There've been cases where people have lost their jobs, their spouses, been driven out of town, and, yes, lost their lives because of Wicca, even now. So much for the New Millennium open minds, huh?" He turned to her. "What's this about? You looking to join a coven?"

"They have those?"

"Some. All my friends are what they call 'solitary witches.' They don't go in for the whole group magic. But some people do, and they organize. That's all covens are, really."

"What about the five-pointed star? What's that about?"

"Most Wiccans use it as their symbol. The five points of the star represent the four elements and the Spirit. The Spirit is as close to a single deity as they're going to get. Spirit is both male and female, God and Goddess. A few idiots invert the star, use it as a symbol for Satanism. That is a sure sign that person is not a Wiccan. Do not get Satanism confused with Wicca. It gets both parties very steamed. Wiccans believe that to name something is to give it power, so to name the devil--Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub--is to give pure evil power. They'd never do that." 

Sara leaned against one of the worktables. "Tell me about the magic."

"Well, it's not like you read about in books, or see on TV or movies. The closest anything actually comes to it, so my friends tell me--I've never seen it--is Practical Magic. You know, that Sandra Bullock, Nicole Kidman movie? Anyway, my friends say that's the closest the media's ever come to real Wicca. Of course they have to change it to make it into 'entertainment.' It starts my friends on a whole long rant. But…." He raked a hand through his hair. "I think they say that they…believe they can work changes upon the world through their will. They concentrate their will through spells, chants, prayer--though not like most people think of praying--stuff like that. They light candles, burn a few herbs, tie a few knots. It's all harmless, and I've seen simple belief work a lot of good."

"So, there's no…real magic?" Sara laughed. "I feel stupid even saying that. But, based on my recent experiences, I really can't ask anything but."

"Well…." Gabriel made a face. "There've been some instances of healing that no medical science can really explain. This guy in…some New England state went to a witch friend of his for healing. Turns out he's got this cancerous tumor. He goes to chemo, all that, but it doesn't help. After his second remission, he goes to his friend. They spend a couple hours every day in meditation, prayer. A few months later…no more tumor." 

Sara's eyebrows raised. "Really? There's proof?"

"Documented evidence. The doctors didn't give him more than a few years to live, at most. It's been ten since that happened, and he's still going strong."

"So…what does that mean?"

He shrugged eloquently. "Sometimes, I guess, believing is enough."

"Thanks, Gabriel," Sara said, standing, preparing to leave.

"Hey, why do you want to know this?"

Sara shrugged nonchalantly. "Oh, this case I picked up today. Girl got killed. She was a Wiccan. I was just curious."

"Who was it?"

"You can read that in the papers tomorrow, Gabriel, just like everyone else."

"I might have known her," Gabriel said. "Or known someone who knew her. The pagan community is kind of small."

Sara sighed. "Her name is Shannon Keene."

Gabriel frowned. "I know that name. Why do I know that name?"

"Well, she's dead. It seemed almost…ritualistic. Almost like a sacrifice."

"Hey, Wiccans don't do sacrifice," Gabriel protested. "They don't hurt anyone. Oh, now I remember. Shannon Keene. Shit." He sat back in his chair, tilted his head back. "I think I met her once at a party. She didn't stick around long, 'cause there was some drinking, a few light drugs. Don't give me that look, Pez, you're not a narc. Besides, I wasn't doing anything. I think she's a friend of my friend's little brother, or something. Damn. She hated that stuff, though. Saw one of her friends drinking a little beer, went over and dumped it over his head. That was something. She's dead?"

"Yeah," Sara said. "It wasn't nice. I'm sure you'll probably read about this tomorrow." She took a couple steps towards the door before she turned back. "You might want to tell your friends to watch out. I don't know if this guy is serial or not. I think he could be."

"The Twitchblade telling you that?" he asked.

Sara rolled her eyes at the nickname he'd given it. "No." She clapped a hand to her stomach. "This is. Tell your friends to be careful."

With that, she left the crowded shop. She slipped on her helmet, and rode home. She made a half-hearted attempt to find something good to eat, but when she found little, she settled for a bowl of cold cereal.

When she crawled into bed that night, it was with visions of pentagrams and the dead girl rotating in her mind.

Sleep hadn't come easy since the Witchblade had found its way onto her wrist. She tossed and turned a few times before she fell into a restless sleep.

**********

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She was walking down a corridor, huge, decorative, and actually leading somewhere. This wasn't the usual type of dream. It had an odd, fuzzy clarity to it. She realized there was a man walking in front of her, leading the way. He had pointed ears. Must be a big fan of Star Trek,_ Sara thought._

The man led her to a cavernous audience chamber. That was the only thing it could be. There was a throne sitting on the far side of it.

"Detective Sara Pezzini of the New York City Police Department, New York, United States of America, Planet Earth," the man in front of her said, bowing respectfully towards the throne. She watched as he walked away, leaving her to stride forward alone. She did so, without hesitation. It was only a dream. Why should she hesitate?

"Indeed," said a calm voice from ahead of her. "Why should you hesitate? You are in the kingdom of Dream. There is nothing for you to fear."

"You're reading my thoughts?" Sara asked.

"Not as such, no." She could now see the man. He was tall, pale. His clothes and hair were practically the same shade of darkness. His eyes were sunken, hollow, as if he hadn't slept in very long. "It's more that you are not blocking them. It's as if you were speaking to yourself loud enough for me to hear."

The man is entirely too much like Irons was,_ Sara thought. "What am I doing here? Who are you?"_

"Both very good questions," the man said, standing. He stepped towards her, and seemed to jump from the throne to her side. In the rippling of his cloak, she thought she saw a field of stars. "They are, however, not mine to answer. My sister." He swept aside his cloak to reveal a short, pale young woman, wearing a long necklace with a huge ankh charm. The woman smiled at Sara, and waved. "She will answer your questions. I'll occupy myself elsewhere, if you don't mind." Then he was simply gone.

"I know you're probably thinking this is nuts," the woman said. "But this is the convenient thing right now. I wanted to talk to you."

"Okay," Sara said agreeably. "Since you're so gung-ho to talk to me, I've got some questions for you. Who are you? Where are we? Why do you want to talk to me?"

"You already know the answer to the second question," the woman reminded her. "I wanted to talk to you regarding that new murder you just picked up. The girl, religious slaying? Shannon Keene."

"What do you know about it?"

"She's a martyr. I think it annoys her. She hasn't talked about it, but I can tell she's upset that she died for her faith. I don't think she thought she had it in her. But that's not the point."

"No. The point is that you're talking to dead people. Why are you telling me this?" Sara turned to leave, only to find the woman on her other side.

"You're not making this easy. You should know me, Sara Pezzini. You've met me numerous times in the past. And your current job is based on who and what I am, for goodness sakes." She sighed resignedly. "Fine. I'll just say what I came here to say. It's not her stepfather."

"But…" Sara protested.

"It's not. He's one of the ones that won't go insane over religion. Hard as that was for her to believe. No, it wasn't him."

"Well, since I've gone this far, can I talk to her?"

The woman wrinkled her nose briefly. "Hmm, no."

Sara glowered at the shorter, slighter woman. "Why not?"

"She's not ready. She's fragile enough as it is. She can't go back like she is now. She needs time to settle."

"But…I can't believe I'm going to say this. I need her help."

"No, you don't," the woman returned, smirking slightly. "Besides, where would the challenge be in your job if you just asked every dead person who their murderer was? And what would you do? Charge them on the grounds of, 'the victim told me they did it?' I don't think so."

Sara frowned. "Why this girl? Why not one of the other hundred homicides that I've handles in the last year?"

The woman shrugged and looked down. "I feel bad for her. I feel bad that that was her destiny: to live a short, stilted life. And…I met her, once, sort of. I was her friend. For a day." She shook her head slightly as if to clear it and looked up. "I eventually meet everyone. Some more often than others." 

"I see," Sara said.

The woman examined Sara closely, head to toe. She barely glanced at the Witchblade. "Yes, I think you do. Though you don't know it." She smiled suddenly. "I've got to go. Duty calls, you know." With that, the woman vanished.

Sara sighed, and turned to find the pale man standing behind her. Automatically, her arm went up defensively. She half expected the Witchblade to morph, but it stayed in its bracelet form.

"You call it the Witchblade, hmm?" the man asked, his voice resonating through the chamber and through her own head.

"Yes. I do." She paused significantly. "Do you know anything about this?"

"Indeed, I do." The man reached down and took her hand gently. "I'm well acquainted with this. It was a gift, sometime ago. It originated here, as a matter of fact."

"Where is here?"

"Here is the Dreamland. I am Dream of the Endless." The man bowed over Sara's hand.

"The…Endless…?" Sara repeated skeptically.

"Yes. You met my older sister. I don't believe you'll have much cause to meet the rest, but in case it ever happens…I don't know that I can give you proper warning. Be well, Sara Pezzini." He began to fade away. 

"Wait!" Sara called, reaching out an entreating hand. "Can I ask…something?"

"You can always ask. I cannot guarantee it will be answered."

"Can you…give me a good night's rest? A reprieve from the dreams of the Witchblade?"

He smiled. "This I can do. This I will do. Sleep well, Sara."

"Thank you," she murmured into her pillow before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**********

The next day dawned, and Sara woke to her alarm. Instead of the usual bolt from sleep to immediate wakefulness, she stretched lazily to slap off the buzzer. She sighed, stretched again, and then got up to begin her day.

"Aren't you looking chipper today," Danny remarked as she stepped into the office. "Why're you so happy?"

Sara shrugged and grinned lopsidedly at her partner, pouring herself a mug of coffee. "Just slept well, I guess."

"Good dreams?"

"No dreams worth mentioning," she replied. She sat at her desk, and inhaled the steam rising from her mug. She remembered her dream, vividly. She remembered the pale man and woman, who claimed to be siblings. The woman had said she was barking up the wrong tree with the stepfather. But she still needed to talk to the man on general procedure.

"So," Jake said, coming into the office and straddling a chair. "What's on the agenda for today?"

"Talk to the stepfather," Danny and Sara chorused. They smiled at each other wanly.

Jake shook his head, also grinning. "What're we waiting for? Let's roll!"

Sara cocked an eyebrow at his eagerness. "'Let's roll?'" she asked mockingly. She and Danny shrugged at Jake's sheepish grin. "Well, as the boy said." She grabbed her coat and led the way out of the office.

"He's a doctor?" Danny demanded, staring at the children's hospital as Sara pulled the car into a parking spot.

"Pediatrician," Jake specified.

They trooped into the building, asking to see Dr. Whitcomb. "May I ask what this is in regards to?" the receptionist asked.

Sara flipped her badge open, as did Danny and Jake. "We're with NYPD," Danny said. "We need to speak to him regarding a case we're working."

"His stepdaughter?" the receptionist asked.

"Yes."

"Terrible thing," the receptionist sighed. "He was just broken up about it. The poor man broke down yesterday when he heard the news."

"Yet he's on duty today?" Sara asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"He says working with the children soothes him," the receptionist replied stiffly, coming to a doctor's defense. "He's on the second floor making his rounds. I'll have him paged."

"Thanks," Jake said, smiling winningly at her as they walked towards the elevators.

The man from the wedding picture stood in front of the elevator doors as they opened. He was five feet, ten inches, black hair, gray-blue eyes, currently bagged from fatigue or grief. He's got a weak chin, Sara thought. High cheekbones, high forehead, medium build, and delicate-looking hands made an odd overall appearance.

"Detectives," the man said, sounding weary. "I'm Dr. Whitcomb. You've come about my stepdaughter."

"Yes," Sara said, stepping forward. "I'm Detective Pezzini, this is Detective Woo and Detective McCartey. What can you tell us about Shannon, Doctor?"

"She was a wonderful girl. Mislead, but wonderful. She felt very strongly about her morals, such as they were. She was always adamant against drug use, alcohol abuse, and everything else. Her mother and I never had to worry about her getting into that kind of trouble. She was a good girl, but she met some people that led her astray."

"Astray how?" Danny asked as they moved out of the way of a gurney carrying a young boy to surgery.

"She was confused, religiously. She had rejected true faith, and was looking for answers in all the wrong places. I don't know why Christie still let her have her parties with her friends, but she did." The man raked a hand through his lank hair. "Parties," he snorted. "They were her 'holidays.' She and her friends would light candles, burn incense, wave around swords and pretend they could do magic."

"I've heard about the neo-pagans," Sara said gently. "It all seems pretty harmless to me."

"Harmless?" he demanded, incredulous. "She's going to Hell! She doesn't…didn't ever go to church. I wanted to save her. Now I can't. She'll never be saved."

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Dr. Whitcomb. But can you think of anyone who would harm your daughter?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if it was one of her friends. Punks, the lot of them. Oh, a few of those…what do the kids call them? Gots?"

"Goths?" Jake supplied.

"Yes, that's it. They're all punks, Goths, kids with all those piercings. Some of them seem quite violent to me."

"She had crosses…forgive me for this…she had crosses carved into her post-mortem. Do you think her friends would have done that?"

"To throw suspicion off themselves? Yes! Now, if you'll excuse me, Detectives, I've got living patients to take care of. I suggest you get back to finding her killer." He turned abruptly and walked out of the elevator corridor.

"He seems pretty eager to cast the blame elsewhere," Jake noted as they climbed back into the car.

Danny shrugged. "He just seemed sad to me. Though that was an awful quick accusation. What do you think, Pez?"

She agreed with the mysterious woman from her dream that he didn't do it. But she couldn't tell her partner and the rookie they were training that she was getting tips on homicides from dreams. Instead, she shrugged. "Something feels off about pinning it on him. He seemed genuinely sorry she was dead."

"Killer's remorse isn't unheard of," Danny reminded her.

Her phone beeped. "Hold on guys. Pezzini."

"Hey, Pez."

"Gabriel," she said. "What can I do for you?"

"Shannon Keene. She was a friend's little brother's friend, like I thought. You want an address?"

"Yeah, yeah, give it to me. One of you write this down, would you?" she asked the car in general. She recited the address Gabriel gave her. "Name?"

"Justin Farnsworth."

"Thanks, Gabriel. Talk to you later."

She hung up the phone. "Gabriel knows a few pagans. I though he might have known Shannon Keene. I asked him, and he just came through. That's one of her friends."

"Those six degrees of separation strike again," Danny said wisely.

"Can we talk to him?" Jake asked.

"Not just now," she said, smiling wryly. "He's at school."

"Unless they had a day of memorial, or something," Danny said. "A student _was_ murdered."

Sara considered. "May as well stop by the house. We'll leave a card for him if he's not home."

A man answered the door. "May I help you?" he asked them, eyeing them warily.

"We're looking for Justin Farnsworth. Does he live here?"

"He's at school. Why are you looking for him?"

"He might have some information for us regarding a case of ours. Here's my number," Sara added, handing over her card. "Can you have him call me when he's out of school?"

The man frowned a little before answering with a question of his own. "Homicide?" Then he blinked in recognition. "You're investigating his friend's murder."

"Yes. We'd like to talk to him, if that's at all possible."

"I'll give him this. He's pretty shocked about it right now."

"I can understand that," Sara said gently. "Have him call me, please."

They left the building. As Danny was starting the car, Sara's phone beeped again.

"Pezzini," she answered. She frowned. "Where?" She recited an address to Danny. "ETA, twenty minutes," she said just before she shut off her phone. "We've got another one," she said.

**********

"What do we got?" Danny asked a uniform, approaching the scene of uniform blue.

"Mixed race teenage boy. Same MO as the girl you picked up yesterday." The uniform led the three of them to the back door of the abandoned building, where there was a small courtyard. The boy wore baggy jeans in black, a black T-shirt with Marilyn Manson's face leering out at the viewers, big black boots, white foundation and black eyeliner and lipstick. His fingernails were painted black, too. Left earring in place, one in the left upper cartilage.

The crosses were harder to see on him, but they were there. The writing on the wall was the same as before: "Repent sinners! Embrace the One True God Almighty!"

"Any jewelry on-scene?" she asked. 

A uniform pointed at a few flags posted around the body. "Two rings, and three chain necklaces, bagged and tagged."

"Time of death been established?" Sara asked. 

The ME on scene spoke up. "About twelve hours," he said. "Instant analysis is the kid defended himself; he's got bruises all over his arms."

"Cause of death?" Danny asked.

"Again with the instant analysis, but it looks the same as the girl, blow to the head. Same place even, though the killer used more force this time. Skull's got a lot more damage. Same post-mortem mutilation."

"Shit," Sara said eloquently. "What do you think the chances are this guy will stop here?"

The ME smiled grimly. "Not in favor, let's just put it that way." Sara repeated her epithet.

"ID? Age? Address?" she said.

"Hector Peters. Nineteen." The ME rattled off the street name and apartment number.

Sara wandered away from the crowd, inspecting the courtyard area. She nearly walked into the woman before she noticed her. Sara jerked to a stop, and just stared. "Surprise." 

"Here to offer any more pearls of wisdom?" Sara asked darkly.

"He's a friend of Shannon's. Not a close one. He didn't get close to anyone. Too much abandonment in his life. That's why he turned to paganism. In a group environment, it can get very tight."

"Who are you?" Sara demanded, keeping her voice low. 

"You should be able to figure that out. Since you haven't, I'll give you a clue. Neil Gaiman. Look him up, and you'll eventually figure it out. Hector and Shannon knew each other for a long time before they became friends. Look at their past until you can figure out where they first met."

Sara looked back towards the body, and when she looked back the woman was gone. Again. She cursed under her breath and stalked back over to the crowd. "We're going to the apartment," she said, already moving towards the car.

Jake grimaced, but followed her. "More parental grief," he said dejectedly.

They arrived at the apartment building and buzzed the apartment. "Mr. Peters?" Danny asked into the loudspeaker.

"Yeah?"

"My name is Detective Woo. I need to speak with you." There was a loud buzzing sound, and they went into the apartment building.

A door was open on the first floor. "What?" the man demanded belligerently.

"Do you know a Hector Peters?"

"He's my kid. Lucky me. What'd he do?"

"I'm afraid he's dead," Danny said. The man froze for a long moment before he reacted.

"Really?" he snorted. "What'd he do? OD on something?"

"I'm afraid he was murdered," Danny said, brow knitting at the man's uncaring attitude.

"You're afraid of a lot, aren't you?" The man laughed at his own joke. "Well? Who did it?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," Sara spoke up. "Do you know if your son knew anyone named Shannon Keene?"

"Don't know, don't care. She might've been one of his little friends. He never talked to me about anything like that. I could barely stand to look at the little queer. Always wearing make-up. Nail polish, for Christ's sake!"

"Mr. Peters," Danny said, appalled. "Your son is dead."

"Yeah? So? His mama ran out on us. His sister just like his mama. Now he's gone and I can get on with my life." He slammed the door in their faces.

"Pleasant character," Jake said calmly. His fists were clenched so his knuckles shown white.

"Some people don't deserve to have children," Danny muttered darkly.

"He's obviously one of them," Sara agreed. Then the Witchblade flashed. She was inside the apartment they'd just left behind. In real-time, she watched Hector's father take out a large bottle of Tequila, and stand at his sink, looking at it for a long moment. Then it slipped from his grasp as his hands started to shake. Then he buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook. "Or maybe he just grieves in a different way," she murmured to herself.

They left the apartment building in silence. Just as they reached their car, Sara's phone rang for the third time.

"Aren't I the popular one today?" she asked rhetorically before answering. "Pezzini."

"Is this Detective Pezzini?" asked a voice.

"Yeah," she said. Sounded young, she noted. Male.

"This is Justin Farnsworth."

"Aren't you supposed to be in school?" she asked.

"You a truancy officer as well as Homicide?" he asked back, his voice acidic. Then she heard him sigh. "Sorry. It's my lunch hour. I was going to go get something to eat. Wanna meet me?"

"Where?" she asked, taking a pencil and paper from Jake.

"McDonalds," he said. He named a street. "Twenty minutes okay?"

"Yeah. Sure." She hung up the phone. "That was Justin Farnsworth. He says he's on a lunch break and would like to meet us for an interview." Sara grimaced a bit. "At McDonalds."

"Good," Jake said. "I was getting hungry."

"Feel free to eat if you want to clog your arteries before you're thirty," Sara said darkly.

**********

They entered the McDonalds and looked around. There was only one kid eating by himself. Jake went to stand in line, while Danny and Sara headed to see if the kid was their contact. "Justin Farnsworth?" Sara asked the kid, approaching the booth.

He looked up, chewed and swallowed hard. He was wearing jeans, a blank white T-shirt and a flannel over shirt. He had a leather jacket on the bench next to him. "Yeah. You'd be Detective Pezzini."

"Yeah," she said back. "This is my partner, Detective Woo. We've got a third party coming, but he's waiting in line."

"The food's crap here," Justin said dully. "But it's crap I can afford. So. You're investigating Shannon's…death." Sara could hear him avoiding the word "murder," and was sympathetic.

"Yes," Danny said gently. "You were a friend of hers?"

"Yeah," he said. He looked down. "I guess I can tell you I had a thing for her. She was something. Stubborn as a mule; she wouldn't back down from anything. She liked to think of herself as tough, you know? But she was a softie inside. Read romance novels like they were going out of style. Wanted to be an editor for Harlequin." He looked out the window at his left, blinking rapidly and clearing his throat.

"Are you a pagan, too?" Sara asked.

"Uh, yeah," he said, hunching his shoulders. "Just don't say it too loud, okay? Her…death has gotten me really freaked. We were celebrating the night she was killed." He choked on the word. "Beltane. It was at my house. I've got a rooftop we use. It's better to do the celebrations as close to Nature as you can get. She walked home alone. I hated that she did that. But she insisted she could take care of herself. That's why she wore the boots, she'd say. Those shit-kickers; they're army surplus, you know. And she knew self-defense moves. And she died anyway."

"Why do you think someone would want to kill her?"

Justin snorted and looked at Danny scornfully. "I heard about how she was cut. She was killed because of what she believed in. She always said she hated martyrs. She always said the challenge was _living_ for your faith or ethics: not dying. Now she is one."

The woman's voice floated back to Sara, and the amulet glowed slightly. _"She's a martyr. I think it annoys her."_ Sara looked back at Justin to see him frowning slightly. He looked at her wrist suspiciously, but didn't say anything. Danny was scowling at this whole exchange, but, as he was getting sort of used to it, also said nothing.

"Are you acquainted with Hector Peters?" Sara asked.

"Yeah. Hector's a friend of mine. He and Shannon weren't really close, but they were nice to each other. They knew each other from something. Neither of them would say what. Why? You want his number or something? He should be home. He didn't come to school today."

Sara and Danny exchanged glances. Justin caught this. He went completely pale, and he slumped in the booth. "Hector? Hector, too? Who next?"

Both the cops winced slightly. "I'm really sorry," Sara said. "Really, I am."

"Did he die the same way as Shannon? The…the cuts, too?"

"Yeah," Sara said. "Same MO. Here," she said, and handed him a small stack of cards. "Hand these out to your friends. Anyone who knew both Shannon and Hector. Maybe they can tell us something that can help us."

"Yeah, sure," he said. He looked down at his half-eaten burger and grimaced. "Can't eat now. I think…I'm going to go home."

"We'll give you a lift," Sara said.

"No, that's okay. I'd rather take the bus."

"I'm going to insist," Sara said. "Along with those cards, pass along the information that this guy could be serial. Don't go out alone, especially at night. Tell everyone." Justin looked shaken, but he nodded jerkily.

She saw Jake making his way towards them. "Rookie, your meal is now 'to go.'" Jake rolled his eyes but obediently followed.

The car ride to the Farnsworth residence was silent. Sara watched the boy climb the stairs to the door of the apartment building and walk inside. "Poor kid. Two of his friends dead in two days."

"He knew Peters?" Jake asked. Danny and Sara locked gazes and rolled their eyes as one. Then they filled him in on what they'd missed. "So…now we track down the past link between Peters and Keene?"

"I think he's getting it," Danny said to Sara. They headed for the Whitcomb apartment.

They knocked on the door, and were surprised when a slight man in a priest's collar answered the door. "May I help you?" he asked, his voice dignified.

"Yes, actually. Is Mrs. Whitcomb in?" Sara peered around the man's shoulder.

"Mrs. Whitcomb is currently occupied. May I ask what this is in regards to?" The man was so stiffly polite Sara wanted to picture him in a butler's uniform, rather than the priest's black.

"I'm Detective Pezzini with NYPD Homicide. These are my partners Detectives Woo and McCartey. We're investigating the murder of Shannon Keene, Mrs. Whitcomb's daughter."

The man looked saddened. "Ah, yes. Shannon was a dear girl. I've known her for many years. Please, come in." He stepped to the side and gestured the trio into the apartment. They found Mrs. Whitcomb in the living room, sitting on the couch. She was staring at a blank TV screen.

"Mrs. Whitcomb?" Danny asked uncertainly.

The woman blinked slightly, and looked up. Her face was ravaged with grief. Her eyes were red, sunken into her cheeks. "Yes?" she asked, recognizing them. "Has there been any news?"

"Actually, there's been another murder. Hector Peters was found this morning."

The priest broke in. "Hector Peters? I haven't heard that name for years. What a shame; that poor boy."

"Did he and Shannon know each other?" Sara asked the priest.

"Oh, my, yes," he answered. "They both attended school where I taught, many years ago. I retired, and they moved on to the public school system."

Mrs. Whitcomb spoke haltingly. "Father McKenna taught the children when they were in preschool. Hector wasn't close with Shannon, but he was a good boy."

"Too bad good boys and girls are often led astray," Father McKenna said sadly.

"So you were aware of Shannon's religious preference?" Sara asked.

"Preference? I was aware of her religious brainwashing. She was told that those…savages could change things. Magic is the work of the devil! Those children are being led straight to Hell on the path laid down by Satan himself!" Father McKenna slammed his fist down on the mantel. "I worked so hard to teach the children the right way, and they turned their backs on the church and God." He shook his head sadly, calm again. "And now they're dead."

Sara exchanged glances with Danny.

"Harry and Father McKenna have been good friends for many years," Mrs. Whitcomb said by way of explanation. "He told Father McKenna of his frustrations with Shannon. They often tried to speak to Shannon, but I'm afraid she was rather rude about brushing them off."

"It's done," the Father said, moving to put a hand over Mrs. Whitcomb's. "It's time to move on."

"Um…thank you, for your time," Sara said uncertainly. She, Danny and Jake made their way out of the apartment quickly. "Well that was interesting," she scoffed. Then she paused. "Let's see if we can't get a list of all the kids that were in Father McKenna's pre-school class. I'd guess it was a bible or private school."

"I was just thinking that," Danny said.

"Wait," Jake sputtered. "You don't think the priest--"

"Anyone is capable of murder, Jake. Even a priest." As she said the words, the Witchblade showed her flashes of…something. She was there, fighting a priest who's face kept changing, becoming demon-esque. Then a…portal, for lack of a better term, opened up right in the middle of a church. Finally, she saw herself choking that same priest with her gauntlet, and shouting, _"Begone!"_

She came back to the present with a jerk to find herself at the car. They headed back to police headquarters.

**********

After work that night, Sara again headed over to Talismaniac. "Hey, Pez!" Gabriel said when she went in. "What's up? Need more information?"

"A little. You ever hear of Neil Gaiman?"

Gabriel looked at her with a wry smile on his face. "My best friend is a comic book nut and you ask if I've ever heard of Neil Gaiman?"

"All I know is his name," Sara said. "What does he…do?"

"He writes these really weird comics. A few books, too, but Sly is mostly into the comics. He says they've got some really trippy but good theological and philosophical ideas."

"Like?" Sara asked.

Gabriel frowned briefly in confusion, then shrugged and continued. "He's got these comics that center on this one character, Morpheus." He didn't notice Sara's raised eyebrows, or if he did he just ignored them. "He's got this really messed-up family. They call themselves The Endless. There's Dream--Morpheus--Despair, Desire, Destiny, Delirium, Destruction, and Death. I think Sly is in love with Death."

At Sara's mocking chuckle, he said, "Not like he's gonna kill himself. I mean the character Death. She's a young, Goth-looking chick. She's actually pretty cool, from what I've seen."

"So what does Dream look like?" Sara asked, she hoped casually.

"Tall, pale. Dark. He had a bad run of luck at the beginning of the comic series. Wears a cloak most of the time, but he can be seen in period dress, if he's seen here at all. Death, too. But if she's in modern times, she just wears jeans, a black tank top, and this huge silver ankh."

"I need to sit down," Sara said, and pulled out a box to sit on.

"You okay, Sara? You want some water, or something?"

"No. I'm good. Just a little thrown. What would you say if I told you I saw those comic book characters?"

Gabriel looked interested. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. What else can you tell me about Death?"

"Sly thinks this is the coolest thing about her: Once every century, it's said that Death takes the form of a human and experiences life. I think it's supposed to help her understand what it is she takes away from mortals."

__

"I was her friend. For a day." Sara shook her head. "This is a new level of weirdness, even for this thing." She tapped her bracelet.

"What?" Gabriel demanded.

"There was another murder last night. We found the body this morning. I saw her at the crime scene."

"Death? She was there? Wow." Gabriel sat back. "This is just…too cool. How the hell did Neil Gaiman latch onto that?"

"Maybe he's an oracle, or something," Sara said. She stood. "Anyway, I've got to run. Thanks for the information, as always."

She barely heard him saying "goodbye" when she left. She went home. As she was stepping up to her apartment door, she paused and turned to her left. "Nottingham," she said, sneering slightly. "I was wondering when you were going to show up. Got any of your usual cryptic warnings about my current case?"

Nottingham stepped out of the shadows, head bowed for a moment. Then he looked at her, his eyes wide, innocent. "I had nothing to do with those children," he said.

"You know, Nottingham, for once I believe you. Maybe you can tell me who did have something to do with the murders?"

"The usual people," he said. He smiled slightly, secretly. "A young woman, seen at every death if you look hard enough."

"What do you know about her?" Sara demanded.

"Only what I read. She's quite a fascinating character, you know. Very… effervescent for an anthropomorphic personification."

Sara looked at him for a long moment, chewing on the inside of her lip. "Anything else?"

Nottingham's smile widened. "In the course of your investigation, you have already run across your killer."

Sara closed her eyes and begged for patience from whatever or Whoever might be listening. "Nottingham, if you know who did it, for God's sake, will you just give me a straight answer for once?"

"I'm sorry, Sara," was all he said. He began to back into the shadows again before Sara called out to him.

"Wait."

"Yes Sara?" he asked hopefully. It was so incongruous, she thought. His eyes were as eager as a puppy's, but she knew what he could do. Would do.

"Since you know who it is, but won't tell me…can you just keep an eye out? Stop any more kids from getting killed?" She could hardly believe what she was asking, but she'd rather utilize his skulking skills then let them go to waste. "Just…watch out for…you know, the killer?"

"This I can and will do, Sara," Nottingham said, an eerie echo of the words the pale man Gabriel had called Morpheus had spoken to her. He again faded into the shadows, and she waited until she was sure he was gone to enter her apartment.

She climbed the stairs and stripped, falling into bed gratefully. The previous night's good rest had been used up that day. Running around, talking to people, finding out she was seeing visions of comic book characters.

As soon as she was asleep she bolted up, aware that someone was in her apartment. She stepped from the bed, only to become aware of the fact that she was still lying down. She looked in confusion down at herself still asleep, then looked around her apartment.

"It's a common thing in dreams, or so my brother tells me."

Sara whirled. "What?" she demanded.

"Out-of-body experiences," Death said. "My brother tells me it's a common thing to happen in dreams. People watch themselves do things they might regret doing, or have liked and wanted to relive. It varies."

"Great," Sara said shortly. "What are you doing here?"

Death smiled. "You know who I am, and yet you're asking what I'm doing here?"

"You haven't come for me," Sara scoffed. Death only smiled. "I'd know if I were dead. This would…do something, I don't know." She looked down at her wrist, where the eye of the Witchblade was glowing furiously.

Death laughed a bit. "I don't normally joke about my job: I take it very seriously. But you're right. I'm not here to take you. It's not your time yet."

"That's a great comfort," Sara said, not entirely sure whether she was sincere or not. "So, why are you here, Death?"

In response to her question, Death scrunched up her nose. "I don't know. I think your little trinket did it. It asked politely, unlike some people I can think of. I guess I was curious enough to answer."

"Okay, I'll buy that. How did you know Shannon?"

"I'm sure research has led you to believe some of the myths are true. I take on a human form every century and walk the earth. It's been some of the most interesting days of my life. I don't consciously work that day, but my prescience is always working. This century I awoke in an apartment here in New York. It was a year ago. I looked pretty much like I do now. I spent most of the time with a boy I found in the garbage dump. We went to a club, and found someone's heart for them. But people there knew me, had known me, as a human. And I knew them."

"One of those people was Shannon Keene."

Death smiled sadly. "Right on the nose. Her life had been re-written up until day so that I had been her friend for a long time. I knew everything about her, and she knew every bit of my fictitious life. She'd attended my fake parent's and little sister's funeral. They'd apparently been offed a bit before I came. She knew about my 'heart condition.'"

"Can you tell me some of the other kids that were in her and Hector's little pre-school class?"

"I can tell you every one of them: for that day, I'd been in the class, too. That was where we met." Death smiled slightly. "It's very weird. On those days, it's like there's two people inside my head. Whoever I was fated to be that day and me as I always am. I knew that everything wasn't real at the same time I remembered everything so clearly. Only a few names from the class will help you. Not everyone became a pagan in their later years. Some stayed on the Catholic course. Some went to Christianity, a couple Jewish. But there were five: Shannon Keene, Hector Peters, Kyle Young, Haley Sanchez, and Eric Quick all became pagans. I will tell you that Haley Sanchez moved to California several years ago. Kyle Young and Eric Quick are the ones you need to worry about."

Without warning, the scene around them shifted. They were standing on a sidewalk shadowed by the steam rising from grates. They saw a young man walking near them, hands in his pockets, whistling nonchalantly. He was wearing jeans ripped in so many places Sara couldn't even see them all. His hair was electric blue, and the piercings in his ear were too jumbled to count. His shirt was pinned with various patches. On the whole, his look screamed, "Punk."

"That's Eric Quick," Death whispered to Sara as they watched him pass by.

Suddenly, black-clad arms appeared behind him, and pulled him into the black mouth of the alley next to them. Sara made an inarticulate sound of protest, and reached out with her hand. Again the scene changed, and they were in the alley, watching. Death remained silent, content to be a passenger on this ride.

The young man held his arms up, shielding his face. Something heavy was swinging down out of the shadows towards him. Before the something heavy could connect, it changed course and fell to the ground. There was a scuffle, then a crash, and then Nottingham stepped into the vague light.

"Go," he hissed to the boy. 

"Th-th-th-thank y-y-y-you," the boy stammered, too grateful to question his savior, and ran out of the alley.

Nottingham looked briefly in their direction before doing what he did best: fading into the shadows.

"That was him, wasn't it?" Sara demanded.

"Yes, that was your friend. He saved that boy's life. You should reward him."

"Nottingham's not my friend. He's my…stalker, informant, I don't know. But that was our killer. I want to see him." She stepped forward, but Death grabbed her arm to stop her. She turned and looked at Death, and found herself back in her bedroom. She looked down at the Witchblade and demanded, "Go back!"

"Sara," Death said chidingly. "You know who it is. You know because you are a good cop, and you know because of what's on your arm. You know who it is, now you have to prove it."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"Your friend hit him very hard, then threw him into a bunch of trash cans. I imagine you'll find him in the hospital. He should have a certain items in his possession. He likes his souvenirs, and he likes to keep them close."

Sara considered this, accepted it. "Does Shannon want to talk to me?"

Death shook her head. "No. She's almost ready to go back. I've learned my lesson several times when I've let people go back too soon after their deaths and they remember everything. It's not healthy psychologically for people to do that."

"Huh," Sara said. "So some of those people who claim to have past lives--"

"Like you?" Death smiled wanly. "Elizabeth Bronte? Cathain? Sehren?"

Sara ignored this, but reminded herself to look up the first two. "They aren't crazy?"

"Not all of them," Death said. "There are some who harbor delusions of it. There are some who cherish and learn from their pasts." She smiled slightly. "I can say for sure that I'll see you again," she said. "In the meantime, be happy, Sara. And remember: Supercalifragilisticexpealidocious."

"What?" Sara demanded just before Death vanished. She hung her head for a long moment. "You just can't let me have a normal dream where I'm falling from an inexplicable distance, can you?" she asked the Witchblade. "You have to give me dreams where I'm talking to a comic book character who quotes Disney." Rather than wait for a response, in whatever form the Witchblade may choose, she fell back into bed and merged with her sleeping self only to wake a second later.

She looked at her bedside clock: three forty-two in the morning. Regardless of the time, she dressed again and slipped out of her apartment. She headed over to New York General Hospital, and approached the emergency room desk.

"Can I help you?" the receptionist asked.

"Was a priest brought in?"

"Yes. He was treated and put in a private room. Why?"

Sara flashed her badge. "He's involved in a homicide I'm investigating. Can you tell me where he is?"

"Of course, Detective. Second floor; follow the signs to room 206. There should be a ward nurse on duty that can give you any further information."

"Thank you," Sara said shortly before turning and walking briskly to the elevators. She exited and saw a sign telling her to go left. She did, and came up to a nurse's station.

"Can I help you?" a big nurse said, standing and moving slightly towards the room doors, most of which were open.

"I'm looking for a Father McKenna."

"Room 206," the nurse said. "Are you a relative?"

"No. Detective, Homicide."

"Oh, then go right in. His injury isn't serious, and we expect him to awaken any minute."

"Thanks," Sara said. She stepped into the room the nurse indicated, and saw the Father laid out in bed, hooked up to an IV. He had bruises already forming on his face, but it didn't look serious. A coat that would have looked more at home around Nottingham's things was draped over the back of one of the chairs. She picked it up, and suddenly saw someone removing rings from a deathly still Shannon Keene. The hands reached inside the coat, and the vision ended.

She shook her head hard and reached into the pockets, coming out with a handful of jangling jewelry; several rings and a necklace.

"You're sure you removed this jacket directly from Father McKenna?" Sara demanded of the nurse who stood in the doorway. The nurse nodded, looking confused. "Hold on," Sara said, and pulled out her cell phone. She dialed, and waited through five rings before her partner answered. "Danny?"

"Mmyeah?" he said, obviously still half-asleep.

"We've got our killer," she said shortly. "Come to New York General. I'll meet you out front. Call Jake."

A half-hour later, she led Danny and Jake to the plastic bag, which she'd given back to the nurse to watch. "This is Shannon's necklace," Danny said, holding aloft the prize.

"Yep," Sara said.

"I assume we'll confirm the rest of them belong to either Hector Peters or Shannon Keene," Jake said, sifting through the rings.

"Most likely," Danny replied.

"Excuse me, Detectives?" the nurse got their attention from a doorway. "He's awake. And he's insisting that he wants to check out. What should I do?"

"Let him check out," Sara shrugged.

Minutes later the priest emerged from his room. "I thank you for all your kind care," he said, smiling brightly at the nurse.

He stopped at the sight of Sara, flanked by Danny and Jake, holding the jacket out. "You'll need this, too," she said. He moved towards her to take it, smiling gratefully. Just as his hand touched it, she added, "Your souvenirs are still inside. Every one of them. I do like Shannon's necklace. Don't you, Father?"

He said nothing. Sara continued, hoping to crack his shell. "You took the necklace off Shannon Keene just before you cut into her skin. You took the rings off Hector after you'd bashed his skull in. Did you do it to help redeem them? Or did you do it because they were past redemption?"

Still the man just looked at her calmly. Sara sighed, and moved behind him to cuff him. "Father McKenna, you're under the arrest for the murders of Shannon Keene and Hector Peters. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law." She finished Mirandising him and led him out of the hospital and to the station house.

**********

In the interview room, Sara sat across from him. He looked none the worse for his booking and full confession. "So, Father McKenna. Why'd you do it? Why'd you kill Shannon Keene and Hector Peters? Two kids that you'd known since they were young children?"

"I've already told you," he sighed almost impatiently. "An example had to be made to show the obvious end to lives such as they led. I did it as a lesson to those that had nudged them from the path of righteousness. Thou shalt not worship false gods!" he suddenly shouted, fidgeting violently in his chair.

Sara raised an eyebrow at his outburst. "Is that what your message was? 'Repent sinners? Embrace the One True God Almighty'?" Sara asked. "Did you do that to warn those who believed the same as Shannon and Hector?"

"I tried so hard," he said whiningly. "I taught them so well. So much time I spent painstakingly teaching them the right way, and they throw it away!" He nodded. "They had to be taught." He shrugged. "I was their teacher. I would teach them the ultimate lesson."

"What was the point of the crosses?" Sara asked, purely out of curiosity.

He smiled, and the lack of humor sent chills down Sara's spine. But he said nothing. With a groan of defeat, Sara left the interview room. 

"He's a sociopath," the police psychiatrist told Sara that afternoon after his session with the Father. He looked through the glass at the priest, who sat with his hands cuffed and folded on the tabletop. "He doesn't acknowledge that what he did was wrong. He says he did it, he knows he did it. But he doesn't believe in wrong. Everything he does is right."

"Okay," Sara said. "I'll buy that. But is he fit to stand trial?"

"Oh, most definitely. He knew what he was doing the whole time."

"Good," Sara said.

********** 

She returned home that night, and didn't even bother pretending to search for food. She fell into bed fully clothed.

__

She didn't seek him out. But she found herself in the audience chamber, facing the occupied throne. Dream was sitting in the ornate chair, dressed contradictingly in jeans and a T-shirt.

"You said you knew something about this thing," Sara said, without preamble, tapping the red stone.

"And hello to you, too, Sara Pezzini." He nodded a greeting.

"You said it originated here?"

"I did, though I misspoke somewhat," he said. "I meant more that it partly originated here."

"How does something partly originate two different places?" Sara demanded. "What is this thing?"

"It is said that it was a branch of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil," he said vaguely. "That, too, originated here." He looked at her blankly for a long moment before saying, "It was a gift. From my family to your quite larger one. Your friend told you of us, of course."

"Yeah, yeah," Sara said. "You, Death, blah, blah, blah."

He smiled slightly. "You know what my family is. Do you draw the correlation between the Witchblade, and us?"

Sara thought for a long moment, of all the things the Witchblade had pushed her to. "I do. But why women?"

"Strength calls to strength. Good night, Sara."

For once, she didn't protest. She had a lot to think over. "Good night. Thanks."

Sara rolled over in her sleep, and the Witchblade hummed contentedly.

****

The End

**********

Author's Note: I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Dinah, who talked me through some misgivings about the way I *knew* the story had to go. And she lent me the Death comic, for which I am eternally grateful. She's also the one who gave me the perfect origin for the Witchblade: "Make it of all the realms," she said at one point. It's all her doing. I was just going to have a resident of Dream's realm making it. (Just a note…if anyone caught the "Glasses of Sandman" thing…she was one of the authors. I didn't know enough about FF.Net to change the word document, so it didn't say, "This isn't mine!") Also thanks to Christina, who answered readily when I fired out random questions at her.

A note about the stereotypes: they're not. I know people who dress like this personally. So if you're going to harp on me about it, it's their doing. 

Lastly, please do not flame me. I don't deserve it. I asked a devout Christian friend of mine if this story would offend her, and she said, "No." The simple point that I'm trying to make in this story is that no one is exempt from being bad. No religion, race, or creed is completely good.


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